Review: The Piano Teacher by Janice YK Lee

I'll be honest, I wasn't looking forward to reading this book. It really didn't look like it would be my kind of thing.

Last year I was buying birthday presents for a neighbour and wanted a couple of novels to go with her champagne and chocolates. My friend is a gentle, lovely, homely sort of person and I wanted some gentle, lovely, homely sort of books - so I chose The Return by Victoria Hislop and The Piano Teacher by Janice YK Lee.

I had read and enjoyed Hislop's first novel, The Island, so I knew it was the right sort of thing. The other, I'm afraid, was a real case of judging a book by its cover. I knew nothing about either the story or the author but it looked like it would be of a similar ilk.

When my friend offered to lend me The Piano Teacher a few weeks later, I politely accepted, but I'm afraid I wasn't enthusiastic. As a fan of Edgar Allen Poe and the like, chick lit makes me do a major swerve on sight. Anything with high heels on the cover or a blurb going on about women looking for husbands and I can't bung it back on the shelf fast enough.

With its pastel colours and whimsical picture of a woman in Oriental dress meandering across a beach, the cover wasn't floating my boat. And when I reacquainted myself with the synopsis - 'two beautiful women, one mysterious man', etc - my heart sank and it got chucked straight to the bottom of my To Read pile.

After several months had passed, I thought I'd really better get the thing read and returned before my friend forgot I'd ever borrowed it. And, against expectations, it was a jolly good read.

Set in Hong Kong, over two time periods - one at the outbreak of the Second World War and the other in the early 50s - The Piano Teacher took me on a highly unexpected journey. Yes, its focal point is love (or lack of it) but this is an engrossing and at times upsetting exploration of the impact of war.

When naive English newlywed Claire is brought to Hong Kong by her nice but dull husband, she finds herself both captivated and alienated by the exotic, complicated social etiquette. But a handsome older man soon begins to show her that she can be more than the English rose everyone expects. Yet Will, the dashing chauffeur, cannot let go of a past betrayal, something which will come between Claire and her exciting but distant lover.

The two stories are interspersed throughout the tale, with the darkness of the past creeping into the light of the present. From the very beginning, Lee shows a strong talent for characterisation, bringing the culture-shocked Claire into sharp focus almost immediately and making her the most sympathetic character in the story. Far from a bland tool to help shed light on the haunted Will, Claire's character is carefully sketched and her relationship with Will is far from idealised.

At the start I thought that Will was going to be a paint-by-numbers contrary cad, intriguing yet cold, but as his past experiences are drawn out into the light, his own inner conflicts give him greater depth and interest. Interestingly, it is with the book's most exotic character, Will's wartime lover Trudy, where Lee fails to fill in the blanks.

Whether this is deliberate or not is open to debate, particularly as Will himself is uncertain how to read Trudy's actions and attitudes. For much of the time it appears that she is a cardboard cutout, a character being sold as loveable purely on the basis of looks and charisma. At other points we are given a glimpse of something more illuminating, a contradiction which is reflected in Will's enduring confusion over his lost love.

But the story really gets into a different territory when war finally breaks into the champagne lifestyle of moneyed Hong Kong, taking dark and at times horrific turns as the mirage of Western privilege is rapidly dissolved by the realities of conflict.

There are some unanswered questions at the end, but life isn't always black and white, so that's no bad thing.

Review: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

A real heavyweight among contemporary storytellers, Sarah Waters is one of my most admired authors. Her last three novels have each been nominated for the prestigious Man Booker Prize and the television adaptation of Tipping the Velvet, her debut tale of lesbianism in Victorian England, was an eye-opening experience for many viewers.

I have not yet read Tipping the Velvet but, after being gripped by her latest novel, The Little Stranger, I have decided to explore Waters' back catalogue. Set in the aftermath of the Second World War, when society has changed and formerly rich families are struggling to maintain their grip on the good life, The Little Stranger tells a slow and creeping story about the effects of decay, both physical and social. Brilliantly narrated by a character who keeps you guessing about his own motives and plays with your sympathies, it touches on the supernatural in an ambiguous way that I find rather thrilling.

So I went on to read The Nightwatch, again set in and around the Second World War, and I was not disappointed. With this novel, Waters seems to excel in telling stories that are kind of about nothing - nothing, that is, other than the complexities and absurdities of human life. Even though it often concerns itself with the minutiae of day to day life - affairs, failed romance, petty and not so petty crimes - the secrets you know are coming still grip and enthral the reader. Telling the story in reverse chronological order, Waters' grasp of structure is awe-inspiring and a useful lesson to all aspiring writers out there.

As a reader, Fingersmith was my first foray into Waters' Victorian period. And to be brutally honest, after the first few pages, my heart was starting to sink. Although it had clearly been intricately researched and was written with as much class as ever, I began to feel uneasy. For the dialogue was too twee, the research shovelled too heavily onto the page, as if the authenticity of its setting had been judged more important than the story or establishment of character. When a chap nicknamed 'Gentleman' turned up, I wondered if I had inadvertantly picked up a Catherine Cookson potboiler by mistake.

But I stuck out this inauspicious beginning and almost immediately, my faith began to pay off. When Waters allowed us to move beyond the grim atmosphere of a thieves' den in Victorian London, the story picked up apace and before long, I was hooked. The twist at the end of part one literally made my jaw drop and now, I cared - I wanted to know what happened to these characters and I had opinions on how their fates should pan out, which is surely the mark of a truly successful storyteller.

Of course there was a bit of lesbo action, but it was handled in a tender and not remotely titillating manner. Indeed, given the behaviour of the story's male population, getting busy with a fellow chick seemed an infinitely more favourable prospect. At one point, I was a little concerned that a subplot about sexual deviancy was going to poison the experience, but it was expertly handled. Without subjecting the reader to the ins and outs of it, so to speak, the deeply unsettling influence is made to pervade the atmosphere, just as it does the lives of Waters' fictional heroines.

Drawing characters that are all too human, Waters leaves you wondering if they deserved their fates; who was good, who was bad and just how far you have to go in order to earn redemption.

Across the Finish Line...For Now

Well, hang out the bunting and start up the horns. For Gormless Idiot has, for once, actually met a target she set herself and it is quite an achievement, though not for the reason you might think.

Avid readers of this blog (of which there are many) might recall that at the beginning of the week, I announced my intention to write an extra 30,000 words in my attempt at a novel and I wanted it done by the end of today. I say 'extra' - as I was starting with only a couple of thousand words anyway, I might as well have been starting at the beginning. Well, at about 7pm tonight, I nudged the total wordcount to about 32,800 which means I have more than met my target. And it's a great feeling.

I should point out that it's not really the feat itself that is the biggie for me. The thing that is making my heart sing is much more mundane. It is the fact that I promised myself and others I was going to do something and actually managed to see it through. For once. Okay, so I wasn't finding the cure for cancer or tapdancing along a tightrope strung between the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, but for me, it's an achievement. Granted, when the book is actually completed, it's unlikely to see the light of day anyway, but that's not the point.

Because I am surely the Queen of Procrastination and my own biggest critic. Nothing brings on a black depression faster than the feeling that I've let myself down or failed to live up to others' expectations, regardless of whether those expectations are largely of my own creation. So to be able to say 'I did what I said I'd do' is a novel and satisfying sensation for me. I still have at least 60,000 words to go of course, but the feeling of having reached a milestone, however minor, is vital to any long distance push.

Though I must say that I didn't do it alone this time - it was the unerring support, encouragement and, yes, nagging, of certain people very close to my heart that pushed me to reach my goal when I'd had enough of the stupid story and just wanted to watch funny cat videos on the internet.

Being aware of this key part of my personality, I'm a bit of a div when it comes to these things, because I usually set myself unattainable targets and grossly underestimate how long it will take to achieve them, thus setting myself up for disaster. From now on I wil try to be more realistic and take more pleasure in the attainment of small but satisfying goals, rather than trying to empty the ocean with a thimble all the time.

Slice Me How You Like, I'm Red, Blue AND Yellow

For someone who has so far failed to be caught up in any sense of excitement, there are many drawbacks to the impending general election. Whether it's the endless hysterical diagrams leaping across the set of Channel 4 News or the stomach-churning footage of Gordon Brown trying to charm bemused shoppers in Morrisons, the election really is a lot of old bollocks.

I accept that it's important and all that, but it's just hard to scratch up much enthusiasm when you truly believe that the result will make little difference to your day to day life. For me, it's about as thrilling as the final of X-Factor. Will the squeaky voiced Mariah Carey-alike claim victory or the lad that looks and sounds like the love child of Robbie Williams and Keith Chegwin? It's of very little consequence, because both of them will trouble the charts for about a fortnight before sinking back into obscurity anyway and, let's face it, they're both pretty shit.

Obviously, Labour and the Tories will have a slightly greater longevity - at least five years, anyway -and will have rather more impact on your rate of income tax. But there is still an overall feeling of thudding boredom and 'god, we've been here before and it was rubbish then', much like visiting a Brewers Fayre restaurant.

But by far the worst thing about elections is the conversations you end up having, usually with your nearest and dearest. Is there anything more designed to wreak havoc among personal and professional relationships than finding you're on very different sides of the fence when it comes to your politics? When fluffy, mumsy Sally in credit control has been bringing in marshmallow cakes all year and knitting socks for the Armed Forces abroad, it can be something of a shock to discover she thought Hitler 'had a point'. Equally, finding out that Hugh in sales believes all women should be sterilised after their first child and any second-borns drowned in a pan, could make you think twice about sharing a room with him at the next company conference.

Most people will not have quite such surprising viewpoints of course, but chats that start out as good-humoured debates can quickly become rather heated and bad-tempered. This is not necessarily because you hold wildly differing opinions to your friend or family member, but because revealing our political views can expose the inner workings of our minds and consciences that others may not have seen before. Which leaves you open to scrutiny and criticism at the most basic level - your values, beliefs and attitudes to others. This is rather different to being critiqued on your work or ability to run a marathon, as it goes straight to the heart of you as a person.

The feeling that someone you care about and admire might not be impressed by your views on a particular issue, especially if you feel you have not expressed yourself very well, can be a pretty damning feeling. Of course, if you have the patience and sense to talk the matter through, people who are like-minded enough to be friends will often find that at the core level, they actually share the same opinion on most important issues, it might just be the choice of approach that differs. But a discussion about politics can leave you feeling frustrated, misunderstood and concerned that you may have done lasting damage to someone's opinion of you, which is even more upsetting if you feel they came away with the completely wrong impression.

Unfortunately, no party will ever present the perfect manifesto for any one voter and I usually find I am attracted to some elements of all the three main parties' values, while alienated by others. So most people end up stuck between a rock and a hard place come polling day. Elections do not allow you to choose this candidate's tolerant values with that candidate's no-nonsense approach, or to blend the Tory guy's plain speaking with the Labour gal's compassion. You have to come down on one side of the fence or the other, which can be a divisive experience. So that's another reason why I'm looking forward to the election being over and we can all go back to moaning about the government together.

In Cyber Space No One Can Hear You Procrastinate

God, the internet's a distracting place, particularly now I've invested in a decent netbook. I'm not sure if it's technically possible for a laptop to be classed as an Absolute Cock Head - I'll have to look up the Collins definition of that term for clarification - but if not, my old computer did a damn fine job of impersonating one.

The internet was not a place for my laptop. Oh no. Like an elderly woman who still keeps her gas money under the chair cushion and doesn't trust the BBC, it would just rather do things the old fashioned way. Whenever I asked it to look up something for me or connect to a website, it kept trying to persuade me to maybe just go and look in a book instead or hey, why not pick up the phone and make the 15 international calls that would be required to discover the name of that ancient monument in Peru you once heard about?

Like a grizzling child, it chuntered and stalled and sulked. It took several hours to get ready for a cyber outing, the equivalent of trying to put wellie boots on a reluctant toddler as it cried and dragged its arse along the carpet. As it obviously couldn't speak - except in those irritating little speech bubbles that pop up occasionally, saying it's had enough of the Times website now so it's shutting down for a little sleep - it expressed its displeasure in non-verbal ways. Primarily, by making me want to kick it down the street until it had vapourised into chalk dust.

So anyway, my shiny new little friend is a real breath of fresh air. I feel like a divorcee enjoying a pert young lover after 30 years with the same saggy, monosyllabic spouse. It's quick, it's keen, it's energetic. But now that messing about on the internet is actually easy and pleasurable, instead of a joyless exercise that gave me plenty of time to contemplate the relentless approach of death, I am finding there are far too many distractions for my own good.

Last night I penned a long and dreadfully dull rant about Facebook, so I hope that won't ever become a preoccupation. But with emails and blogs to read, emails and blogs to write, and the knowledge that at the touch of a few buttons, you can find out anything you ever wanted to know on this vast and incomprehensible network, pressing your nose to the grindstone and keeping it there becomes even more difficult than ever. I bet Dickens never had this trouble, but he might have done, if he'd had Google Earth or fancied checking out BigJugsRUs.com.

This week, my writing is actually on target, even though I fell pathetically behind on Tuesday and had to make up the ground yesterday. But it took several hours and plenty of dedication. So, bearing in mind I still have 5,000 words to write, along with a trip to the supermarket and a few chores to fit in before this evening, I'd better stop this drivel and get to it. I'll just quickly check my stars and find out who holds the record for the most farts in an hour and then I'll be straight back to it, promise....

In Your Facebook

After weeks of nagging, my sister has finally convinced me to set up a Facebook page, though I'm still not sure why. Apparently it's good for getting in touch with people, but I have to say, two hours in, I'm already fed up with it.

Not only does my email keep buzzing with constant update notices, but the whole thing seems just a bit too invasive. I'm not sure I really want the entire world to know my work and education history, to know the ins and outs of my relationship status or to judge how raucous my parties look. I know you have to accept people as friends before they can see everything, but you'd feel pretty rude rejecting them and anyway, any old Tom, Dick or Harry can see a fair bit of your profile with just a random viewing. To be honest, it unsettles me.

That might sound odd coming from someone who blogs nonsense on a regular basis and posts it up on the worldwide web, but bizarrely, there's an anonymity about this that I find rather reassuring. No one would know this was me unless I told them, so I feel a freedom to say exactly what I want, safe in the knowledge that my boss or brother-in-law or mother aren't going to stumble across my most gormless musings. I realise that Facebook is designed for messaging and networking, rather than blogging, but it's still weird that some berk you once shared a bench with in woodwork class can have the same access to intimate information about your life as your dearest friends and family.

The fact that my Facebook page identifies me exactly and gives people who know, or know of me, a glimpse into my personal life is actually rather unappealing. And then of course, once they've seen your page, they can attempt to get in touch with you. And they'll know you've seen their message. Although most of us are guilty of losing touch with genuine friends through laziness or circumstances, in which case resources like Facebook could prove invaluable to rebuilding those relationships, there are plenty of people who pass through your life and go straight out the other side, leaving no void behind them whatsoever.

Of all the hundreds or thousands of people you've met over the years, there's probably a very good reason why you've only kept in touch with, say, five per cent of them. There might be a few lost gems that have slipped through your fingers - last year, I was contacted by an old schoolfriend who had seen an ancient entry of mine on Friends Reunited (remember them?!) and, miracle of miracles, she was one of the very few old classmates whom I had actually thought about and missed since our days of giggling over scrawled willies in RE. But let's face it, those sorts of people will compose maybe one per cent of the extras in the story of your life. The remaining ninety-four per cent will be a random collection of Nice Enough But Unremarkables, Complete Dullards and Monumental Bell-Ends That You Couldn't Stand At The Time So Why The Hell Would You Want To See Photos of Their Fat, Troll-like Children Now?

If I want to see a cat in a maid's outfit, I'll abuse my own pets. And that brings me to the two most tedious aspects of the whole Facebook phenomenon. Firstly, the photos. Everyone's walls are packed with images of them living like a celebrity - photos of fancy dress parties, photos of 'wild' trips to nightclubs, photos of them posing on top of Mount Everest, photos of them looking cool in sunglasses and cowboy hats. Choosing a profile picture posed a conundrum, as I am happy to use any photo as long as it doesn't have me in it. I'd rather stick up an image of Rose West drinking a fishbowl cocktail and claim it was me on my latest wacky summer in Ibiza, then force my fizzog on the world.

Fortunately, my sister took that job off my hands by forwarding a photo of my husband and I wearing hilarious comedy antlers, taken last Christmas and it's as bad as any I'll find, so I stuck it up. But once I've exhausted my honeymoon photos and a few grainy snaps taken on various drunken nights out in the unremarkable bars that infest my home town, I'll have nothing to put up. I'm 30 years old and a square - I don't go clubbing anymore. I've never fancied bungee jumping or snow boarding and I certainly won't be spending an evening flashing my knickers at Dane Bowers in Chinawhite any time soon. And I don't think pictures of what I actually do with my time - rearranging my book shelves, falling in mud while out on country walks and tearing out chunks of hair while trying to force a book into existence - will make a particularly thrilling profile. To make my picture wall fit the Facebook model, I'll have to lie and stage a Green Card-style photo shoot in which I pretend to be someone else, with an entirely different life. And to be honest, I can't be bothered.

The second horror of this virtual social life is, of course, the dreaded Friend Count. I saw an excellent episode of South Park just the other night, in which everyone went crazy over having hardly any friends online, completely losing sight of the fact that the more time you spend scouting for cyber pals, the less likely you are to actually have many friends in the real world. The guy with the most Facebook friends of all is probably called Eric, lives with his mother and smells faintly of Bovril.

In short, I just can't be bothered with it. I never thought I'd say that text and email is a more socially adept way of keeping in touch than anything, having bemoaned in the past the demise of phone calls, letters and face to face interaction. But at least the above technological developments are private - if you forget about Big Brother of course, but he's looking for terrorists, so probably takes only a passing interest in whether Sharon's sleeping with Dave and how your piles are getting on. I'm not sure I want that creepy girl from accounts that I worked with briefly six years ago to know I'm having a party and realise she's not invited. Worse, I don't want to find out I haven't been invited to her party. The bitch.

Literary Greatness Waits....And Waits....

This week, I have taken time off work to fling myself wholeheartedly at the business of writing my next book. That sounds very grand, doesn't it - 'my next book', as if I am a hotshot author whose publisher and adoring public wait with bated breath for my next literary masterpiece. When I say 'my next book', I really mean 'my next doorstop of cheap, badly printed papers to be flung on top of the other doorstops of cheap, badly printed papers currently mouldering in my study'.

As this one has got off to a faltering start - I can't be sure of the current total wordcount, as it's strewn across two computers, but I think it's a staggering 2,500-ish - I have set myself a mountain to climb this week. By Saturday afternoon, I want to have sweated out another 30,000 words. Actually, this goal is quite fluid. Whether it remains as 'another 30,000 words' or 30,000 words including what I've already done, will be decided as the week creaks on, based on the success or otherwise of my progress. But as my starting point is pretty pitiful, it will make very little difference.

Anyway, I was supposed to start writing at 8am today. At 8.30am I was just sitting down at the computer. An hour later, I was still sending emails and looking at 'important things' on the internet. A further two hours on and I have achieved the following - booked an MOT; ordered a birthday present; stared at the detailed planner I made last night and frowned at the amount of things I'm supposed to be have done by this time; read a short story on the internet; talked to the cats and, finally, taken a cursory glance at the gawdy notebook in which I plan and sketch out my stories.

Now that it really is time to start, I'm thinking about all the other jobs I was supposed to get done today, in all that lovely time that I perfectly mapped out on my planner and am now desperately behind with. But balls to that - write I must and write I shall. Then it occurred to me that putting my intentions down on this blog and posting daily updates would actually be quite a good idea. Even though it has a readership of zero, I can kid myself that by marking my progress up on here, I will be inspired / shamed into working hard, just so I can have something impressive to relay. Rather like the weekly weigh-in at a weight loss class I suppose, it sometimes takes the scrutiny of others to really push you into action.

It's pretty sad that my own desires and ambitions are not always quite motivation enough, but never mind. At least it's another way to waste 20 minutes every day when I should be writing.

Joking Aside, It's a Tragedy

Just watching a couple of chameleons getting up to stuff on the telly. No, it's not one of the saucier bits of David Attenborough's latest wildlife documentary. It's The Dark Knight, the second instalment of the most recent Batman saga and personally, I'm a big fan of the latest incarnation of the Crimefighting Codpiece.

Just like the latest crack at James Bond, the revival of this film hero has been a massive success and driven not only by the mindless appeal of the franchise, but by an intelligent, exciting and affectionate new approach. Some critics weren't as pleased by The Dark Knight as they were by Batman Begins, but I feel that's rather a nit-picky attitude. Neither film is a timeless classic, but both are highly entertaining and worthy of praise for a number of reasons. But for two key things, I think The Dark Knight just edges it.

Those two things are Heath Ledger and Gary Oldman. Obviously, there has been an Oscar-winning hoohah about Ledger's performance as the thoroughly unhinged Joker and one couldn't help but speculate that his posthumous victory might have been at least partly secured by his untimely death just after the film's completion. But for an actor that had previously struck me as being rather vanilla in his prior career, Ledger absolutely explodes into a human catherine wheel in this film, giving a performance that both amuses, tantalises and bloody petrifies the viewer. This role gave him the chance to unleash his potential in a comparable but entirely opposite way to Brokeback Mountain - the story of country folk in love was an exercise in muted agony, while the Joker allowed his inner mentalist to spiral outward in ever increasing circles. His eye-popping performance as the hare-brained villain was truly extraordinary and an indicator of his true talent, which makes his early departure even more tragic.

Gary Oldman is a safe pair of hands in any role, but he is one of those actors who has a remarkable ability to morph into a physically different entity from one film to the next. His character does not make his debut in The Dark Knight, but he does get to spread his wings a little and show the vulnerable, hysterical side of his downtrodden cop (even if he is forced to deliver a particularly cringeworthy monologue at the end).

I recently saw a very young Oldman in Prick Up Your Ears, the true story of tragic playwrights Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell, and realised how exciting it must have been to see this astonishing actor in one of his earliest roles. I had much the same thought when I saw Dog Day Afternoon, which provided an early stage for a baby-faced Al Pacino, and wished I had been in the cinema audience when this human firecracker first exploded onto the screen.

Hopefully, Oldman will continue to enrich our cultural lives for decades to come, though sadly Ledger will surprise us no more. But that is perhaps the greatest beauty of film. Nothing - whether a person, story or feeling - ever truly dies.

The Entertainer Strikes Back

Just to enhance the impression that I'm actually a five-year-old living in a 30-year-old's body, the prospect of 'entertaining' usually brings me out in a cold sweat.

Not because I dislike seeing friends and family, but because I am simply so inept at it. Whereas other people seem to have an inate ability to lay on a wonderful spread and think of those great little touches that can make an evening special, I have to practically push my brain through a sieve in order to extract any little nuggets of inspiration to help make my guests' stay a memorable one. I've improved over the years, but it doesn't come naturally and that's always rather annoyed me.

My sister, for example, is a great cook who always has a very stylishly laid table and is good at making people feel at their ease. It was a particularly splendid meal I enjoyed at her place at Christmas that prompted me to embark on a relentless assault on the kitchen this year, to finally equip myself with a few culinary skills and enable me to serve up to my guests something which doesn't look like the contents of a primary school kitchen's bin.

Last night was my first opportunity to demonstrate this fledgling but promising new approach. My father and stepmother were the unwitting test subjects and blimey, did I worry about it? Just a tad. To say I gnawed my fingernails to the knuckle as I basted the lamb every three seconds and opened the fridge every 1.5 seconds to stare my panna cottas into dust would perhaps be an overstatement, but not by very much. My fondant potatoes decided to be absolute bastards and take about twice as long to cook as they should have, giggling away as they jigged about in the water and butter, enjoying a nice spa bath while we all stood around starving to death. But eventually I got the little gits on the plate and rather tasty they were too, so I took great pleasure in mashing their little heads between my teeth, grrrr... (Is it weird to hold a grudge against food? Perhaps, but if you're that way inclined, surely it's better to want to murder your dinner than take an axe to next door's cat...)

The panna cottas were the thing though - little blancmange-style creations that you have to set in the fridge for at least an hour and hope to god they hold together when you tip them out of the mould. Mine went in three hours early. And I had emergency ice cream in the freezer, just in case they let the side down by spilling their guts all over the plate, like that android that bled white wax in Alien. The tension was unbearable as I casually cleared the table of main course plates and saundered off to the kitchen to see if these little guys would turn out to be friend or foe. Would I be stroking their little wibbly heads in ecstasy, or stamping them into the kitchen floor in a fury of culinary disappointment?

Well, they weren't going to put me out of my misery quickly. Oh no. They like to keep a girl waiting. I tentatively turned the first mould over onto the plate and waited, with bated breath. Then tapped on the mould. Then turned it. Then shook it gently. Then then shook it impatiently. Then wanged it up and down against the worktop as if I was trying to split the atom. And still they wouldn't budge. Just as the cold beads of sweat were beginning to trickle between my brows, I took the tip of a knife and gently inserted it between pudding and mould, allowing a little air to ease its way in and plop! Down onto the plate it fell, with a satisfying splat, and held itself together beautifully. Phew. We were friends and there would be no crazed dessert murder that night...

A sprinkling of icing sugar, an addition of mint leaf and a few clumsy swirls of raspberry sauce later, they emerged from the kitchen looking rather bloody fab and classy, if I do say so myself. They even prompted a request for seconds and a 'so how did you make the sauce? Might have a go at these myself...' I've often heard people talking about the joy of making others happy with food and never really understood it, but last night those empty plates and smiling faces did actually make me feel quite warm and fuzzy inside.

All in all, the evening was rather a success and although packed with lessons to be learned, I suddenly felt a lot more grown-up - I'd say at least eight and a half.